


Lessons in Humility

by Bastetmoon



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Bondage, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements, Strangulation, Unhealthy Relationships, angbang, basically everything unhealthy, dub-con, non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-07
Updated: 2015-08-07
Packaged: 2018-04-09 13:20:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4350335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bastetmoon/pseuds/Bastetmoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Melkor returns to Angband after a long time away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lessons in Humility

**Author's Note:**

> Occurs after Melkor has returned from corrupting the first men into his service.

The back of Marion’s neck prickled.

Down the long twisting hallway shadows twisted, cavorting in the empty alcoves, spreading like a dark mist down the walls. They fled back from the light of his little candle. His footfalls echoed loud and empty, their reverberations lapping up against the black stone of the walls. The trail of his robes was a whisper. The few orcish guards he passed averted their gaze and dipped their heads. The Lieutenant—and in his master’s absence, commander—of Angband demanded their recognition.

How long since he had trod this well-worn path? Over a hundred years of the sun he reckoned it.

The fur lining the color of his robes was warm, yet cold seemed to seep in about him. Like a kiss of ice it rose gooseflesh along his skin. With a hand Marion sheltered a candle from the chill, warmth and light seeping through his fingers as if through the bars of a cage.

Mairon fell still before a familiar door. Putrid engraving swirled across the black iron. They unraveled before his eyes in spells of malevolence and ire. A familiar sigil in the far corner marked the work as his own, a gift as it were. His fingers inched out, brushing against the contours of the metal. Before he could exert any force the door swung inward, creaking slightly on its aged hinges. Mairon made a mental note to repair that when he next had the opportunity.

Kneeling he set the candle beside the doorway, then gathering up the hem of his garments he stepped through, into a light that—though dim—seemed blinding compared with the gloom of the hall. Set into a far wall a fire flickered, bathing the carven designs of the chamber with a rosy glow. Behind the door snapped too with a hollow boom that rose once more the tension in his shoulders. Raising his chin he swept away a strand of hair that had drifted down to rest upon his cheek.

“Come little one, do not linger in the shadows.” The voice flowed through the quiet like silk and wine, but underscored by something darker, something more menacing.

“My lord.” He stepped forward, dipping his head in reverence.

Gold irises gleamed out of the shadows, crackling as if each one contained its own nebulous thunderstorm. His master’s face was proud as he remembered, yet somehow it appeared aged. Dark shadows linger beneath that imperceptible gaze, a new scar traced a spider’s web of white across one cheek.

“You are looking well Mairon.” His eyes widened and he fought to keep the surprise from his features. Rarely, if ever, had his master expressed any sort of concern for his wellbeing.

The golden gaze flitted across his face, taking in the features and lingering on the black circlet Mairon wore upon his brow. “It appears power becomes you.”There was something enigmatic in his voice, something that sent prickles of what was either fear or desire down his back. He was not sure which.

He dipped his head once more in gratitude. “And I trust your travels went well Master? The second-born were sympathetic to our cause?”

“Certainly, they will take our side against those Nolor usurpers. Already they rally for battle.  A pity they live for so short a score of years.” Melkor reclined languidly in his chair, the wooden frame creaking as he pushed it upon two legs. Dark hair fell like a cascade of shadows down it’s back, where it pooled in a puddle of pitch. Mairon fidgeted with the sleeve of his robe, acutely aware of the gaze which burned its way through his flesh. He had not been invited to sit, so he remained standing, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

“But come now, I did not invite you here to discuss the trivialities of my newest recruits.”   Ashy finger tips pressed together, forming a steeple, over which his master regarded the him. “My commanders say you performed admirably in my absence.” He chuckled, as if something about the words was amusing. “Admirable. Mairon the Admirable, isn’t that what they used to call you?”

“Y-yes my lord, I only did my best to keep the fortress well manned and supplied.” He raises his head proudly, reveling the acknowledgement of all he had accomplished. A list of seemingly meaningless—yet crucially important—repairs and commands, rattle off his lounge. All he had ordered during his master’s absence.

“As I said, power suits you little one.” Eyes flashed, dark energy momentarily eclipsing the gold. “So long as you do not forget who holds commands it in the end, so long as you remember who your master is.”

“All I did was in the glory of your name.”

“And yet the banner’s I have seen bearing your sigil would speak otherwise. Do not tell me you forgotten where your loyalty lies.” An image of the proud red banner with its eye sigil flashed before his eyes.

A sharp spike of defiance drove through him, ill-timed though he deemed it. He tossed his head, hair cascading about him like spun gold in the firelight. Why should he not take pride in his creations? He alone had held this fortress together in its lord’s absence. But there was something in his master’s expression that cowed him even as he soared high upon his own self-importance.

“I have not forgotten.”

The chair screeched as Melkor rose, black robes rippling like oil. “Have you grown prideful Mairon? You think that pretty crown on your head has made you high and mighty?” The corners of his mouth twisted upwards, bearing a flashing grin. “Do I need to teach you a lesson in humility?”

Like that the wave of realization—of why he had been called here, tonight—crashed over Mairon. Dread, anxiety and something akin to desire settled in swirling mess within his stomach. “My lord, no I beg.”

“Remove your robes, little one.” 

Mairon’s hands froze at his sides, unwilling to carry out the command yet drawn in by the power of the voice.

“Remember you’re place…”

He fumbled at the clasps that hold his robes together, his usually nimble fingers rendered clumsy. How long had it been? Too long? Or not long enough? With a rustle the fabric fell into a heap at his feet. He stood completely bare, the light cast off by the fire licking up his thighs and dancing across his stomach.

His master appraised him with a hungry expression, palming himself over the thin material of his own silky robe.

Blood rose in dappled conflagrations across Mairon’s cheeks. “My lord I—“

With a single stride his Melkor bridged the distance between them. One hand holding him at the waist, the other coming to rest at his throat.

Lips crashed brutally against his. It is something he could only describe as possessive, as Melkor stole the air from his lungs and he tasted blood upon his lips. He could feel his master’s arousal pressed hard against him.

“Mairon.” That terrible, beautiful voice crooned. One finger whispered along his stomach so that his breath hitched in his already constricted throat. “Little Mairon.” There was something so perversely wrong about it, how the name fell from his master’s lips, sweet as honey yet bitter as most vile orc draught. His every instinct rebelled against it. “Or should I call you Gorthaur as the elves do?”

The constriction of his Melkor’s hands grew tighter. A metallic tang seeped through the air as nails dug wells in Mairon’s skin.

He had no breath left to speak. Black spots danced before the field of his vison like sparks composed of shadows. Just barely, through the soft fringe of lashes he could make out his masters face. Golden eyes were lidded, fixed in concentration, studying the maia before him, even as he suffocated.

“You have grown quite beautiful little one.” And like that the pressure at his throat vanished. He gasped. The air that filled his lungs tasted as sweet as it once had in the gardens of Yavanna, if only from deprivation.

The reprieve lasted only a moment.

One of Melkor’s hands knotted in his hair, jerking his head backward in a savage motion.

Teeth sunk into the tender flesh of his throat, adding to the conflagration of bruises that already blossomed across his skin. One hand stroked his already throbbing length. It tore a low whine from his throat. How he hated that sound, crawling unbidden from behind his bared teeth.

A dark chuckle echoed around the chamber. “Patience little one, patience.”

His master released him all together, sending him stumbling backwards. Hair falls in a fine mesh of golden strands before his face. He knew how he must look, savage, wrecked upon the floor of the chamber, the marks of his master’s attentions just beginning to show.

There was a rustle as Melkor drew aside the dark of his garments, revealing himself. “Get on your knees.”

It was a command and Mairon sunk down before him. The stones were cold and unyielding against his knees. Melkor’s hands curled in his hair as he thrust forward, giving the maia no choice but to take him—all of him—into his mouth. He struggled not to gag as his master hit the back of his throat.

With each motion Mairon began to match his master’s pace, slipping a hand up to grip the base of his master’s length, even as he made use of his mouth. He swirled his tongue in the way he _knew_ was most effective, though it had been long since he had occasion to use it.

A growl tore from Melkors throat, “Yes, little one. You are a good thrall.”

The words hit heavy as a blow. His pride smarted with the sting of submission, to be used like a toy that will soon be discarded. It would’ve been easy to close it his eyes, pretend he was far away. Instead he kept them fixed upon his master’s face, allowing all the resentment, all the ire, all the _hurt_ to spring forth in his gaze.

“Enough _.”_ Melkor pulled back, his length coated in a glistening sheen of saliva. The hand tangled in Mairon’s hair released him so he fell back hard against the stone floor.

He heard rather than saw the rest of his master’s clothes being discarded, the black robes slithering to the floor. Mairon did not move, he remained innate upon the floor. His hair tangled about his face and for once he made no effort to brush it back. Bare feet padded about him, the soft sound as loud as hammer blows.

“Go to the bed little one, unless you wish me to take you as you lie.” A strong hand wrapped about his arm, dragging him to the bed as easily as if he were made of rags. Mairon dug his heals into the floor but they garner no traction. Instead he allowed himself to be cast down upon the dark sheets. The silk was cool beneath his exposed skin.

His masters lips crashed down upon his once more, black power and foul spells spilling between his teeth. One hand raked down his stomach drawing blood, the other took the maia in hand stroking and coaxing.

Moans and half pronounced words poured from Mairon’s mouth and Melkor chuckled against him. He tipped his head back, reveling and hating in equal measure the feeling of the valar’s lips on his skin.

A slap sent his head reeling to the side. His vision spun even as his cheek throbbed.

“Ever you are so willing Mairon, even in all your glory you would give up yourself.” Lascivious words lapped against the maia’s ears, biting into the confused maelstrom of his thoughts.  “I have half a mind to leave you as you are. Desperate. Wanting.”

“My lord, please.” He was not sure what he was begging for any longer, to be left be or be consumed. Both were unbearable. Both could not satisfy him.

With a savage motion his master flipped him, so that he lay with his stomach upon the cool sheets.  For a moment the pressure of his master’s weight left him. Almost gently hands lifted his arms away, so that they could no longer shield him. With a rustle and tinkle, cool metal pressed against his wrists. He glanced up to see golden manacles encasing his wrists, binding his arms to the post of the bed.

He could feel when his master settled once more upon the sheets behind him. Strong fingers pried his thighs apart, despite how he struggled. A smattering off kisses laced his thighs—soft as a whisper after his most recent treatment.

 He felt when Melkor pressed up—hard—against him.

Mairon tossed his head back. Nausea and desire roiled in equal parts in his stomach, and most of all his shame. Shame to be brought so low so soon after soaring so high. Shame to be so utterly bare before the one being to whom he owed his absolute loyalty.

“Don’t struggle so Mairon. After all, it’s not as though it’s the first time.”

With that Melkor sheathed himself completely. Mairon fought against the whimpers rising in his throat, arms tugging painfully against the restraints. He stifled his sobs as the pace was set, each thrust sending the air from his lungs. There was nothing to do but hold on, hold on and wait.

The initial sting soon faded. Soft moans dribble from his lips, without permission but he could not take them back. One of Melkor’s burnt black hands wrapped around his waist to stroke him. Breath came hot upon his neck, as his master sunk his teeth once more into the sensitive skin.

“Master.” He arches his back wildly, the manacles biting harshly into his wrists. “I can’t. I can’t.”

 In that moment he was drowning, and he was not sure if his master was the one pushing him under or lifting him to safety. His entire world became the press of his stomach upon the sheets, the feeling of his master inside him, and the slap of skin on skin.

It was all too horrible—too perfect—to last.

“I’ve missed you little one.” The words flow down sweetly into his ears. And like that he was undone, spilling himself across the sheets. Through the haze of his own twisted ecstasy he could feel Melkor give a last thrust before shuddering to his own end. More words flowed across his tongue but their meaning escaped him, perhaps they were his name.

His master disentangled himself. There was a clink and Mairon’s hands were released, falling heavily onto the bed. With a prickle the blood began to rush back to his fingers and he cradled his face with them. He could feel the salty grit of tears upon his cheeks.

Idly Melkor’s lips traced the skin of his back.“My perfect little maia. Little Mairon.” He crooned and Mairon wished for all the world he could just shut it out, keep the insidious words out of his head, keep them from wrapping about all his thoughts. “I love you little one. You know that I do.”

He barely registered the words through the haze of exhaustion. They wound through his mind. A lie certainly, but a beautiful one. He could find no words in response so he just lay still and let his master lay kissed up and down the tortured length of his body.

_No you don’t._

               

**Author's Note:**

> Um...so yeah. That was my first attempt at writing Angbang, and I'm sure I'll probably be cursed to eternal damnation for it. Both Mairon and Melkor are fascinating characters, as well as very difficult to write about. That being said I hope it was enjoyable. Any feedback is much appreciated.


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